


Inked Bones, Inked Veins

by inspiration_assaulted



Series: Building a Home [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blood Magic, Countdown to death, M/M, Powerful Harry, Prequel, Torture, slightly graphic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:35:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspiration_assaulted/pseuds/inspiration_assaulted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"True emotion and humanity lay in the human heart, that vague, metaphysical concept completely separate from the muscled organ inside the chest, and yet just as necessary.<br/>That was what Harry was missing."</p><p>The prequel to Guardianship; the story of Harry and Theo and love in the most hopeless of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked Bones, Inked Veins

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: It's a bit AU, but I needed Bella and her cruel instability. Pretend Molly killed Rodolphus at the Battle or something.

When Harry Potter defeated Lord Voldemort, he felt no triumph. No rage. No soaring elation of victory or sated bloodlust and desire for revenge. Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, felt only a faint regret, born from being tired of killings. Not the man he had been only an hour before, Harry Potter whispered a phrase, unnoticed by the crowd who had gathered to watch the Dark Lord’s empty body fall.

“I’m sorry, Tom.”

It was an apology born of empathy and understanding. No one is truly evil, not even Lord Voldemort, not until madness got in the way. He had only been a boy who wanted to change the world. Just like Harry. A lot of pieces of Tom Marvolo Riddle were just like Harry. It scared some people, especially his close friends. But it didn’t scare Harry.

Nothing scared Harry. Not anymore.

Nothing made him happy either, or sad or hopeful or even angry. Not anymore.

When Harry had entered the Forbidden Forrest, that night of the Battle, he had carried more soul than any man should. When Harry left the Forbidden Forrest, that grey dawn of the Battle, he had been empty. Only the fact that he was still moving around, still willing to finish his task, proved that he was alive.

Hermione Granger described him as a shell of the energetic boy she once knew, tears running down her face.

Ron Weasley likened him to someone Kissed by Dementors, with a shudder.

They both knew that the Harry Potter they were speaking to was different. Something had happened in the Forrest, and it was as though their Harry had died.

If they only knew how right they were.

* * *

 

If Harry had been willing to speak and describe himself, in those weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, he would have disagreed with Ron. He knew his soul was still firmly in place. He was still human, still liked treacle tart and disliked sprouts and all that. No, what he was missing was his heart. Blood still pumped through his veins, but it was like a machine instead of flesh. He was missing a real, human heart, with love and hate and all the lesser emotions that sprang from them. What was the soul but the cold facts that make up an identity? It was even a physical thing, able to be divided and stored in objects. No, true emotion and humanity lay in the human heart, that vague, metaphysical concept completely separate from the muscled organ inside the chest, and yet just as necessary.

That was what Harry was missing.

* * *

 

Harry was taken on a Monday.

He knew it was Monday because Mondays were the only days he left Grimmauld Place. On Mondays he went to visit Andromeda and Teddy. Andromeda knew what state Harry was in, even if she didn’t know why. She demanded that he leave the house sometimes and spend time with his now orphaned godson.

And thus, the Monday visits were born.

That Monday was their fourth visit. Or it would have been.

If Harry hadn’t been captured.

He emerged from the wards surrounding Number 12 and came toe-to-toe with a manically grinning Bellatrix Lestrange, who shot off a quick spell to bind him with black cords. Behind her were a smirking Antonin Dolohov and bored looking Theodore Nott, Sr.

“Well, look who we found! Ickle baby Potter!” She leaned in close to his face. “We’ve come for a visit, Potter.”

“Bella,” Dolohov interjected warningly, “we don’t have time for this. Just take his wand and let’s go, before anyone sees.”

“Fine!” Bellatrix huffed, fishing his wand out of his pocket. “We’re going on a trip, little Potter! Off to see a bunch of nice people who want to talk to you about what you did to the Dark Lord!” she cooed at him. Then Nott grabbed his shoulder in a crushing grip and apparated them away.

* * *

 

If Harry had been capable of emotion, he might have been surprised at their choice of location for a base. He didn’t think any of the Death Eaters had known of Voldemort’s true parentage, much less where his father’s house actually was.

Harry was jerked through the front hall of Riddle House and down a set of stone steps into a dank dungeon that was obviously a recently converted basement. There was one cell in the corner, into which Harry was shoved. Copper pipes and electrical wiring were exposed overhead. A single bulb lit the room with a shaky yellow light, buzzing faintly. A can of peas lay on its side in a dimly lit corner by the stairs.

“These are your accommodations, Potter, while we still have a use for you,” Nott sneered at him. “I do hope they meet our Savior’s high standards.” The basement was cleaner than Grimmauld Place, with the added benefit of not having curtains that tried to eat him. “Now don’t get any ideas about escaping without your wand, or calling any elves. This place is shielded and warded and you’ll be guarded day and night.”

He wondered who was in disgrace enough to be assigned as his guard.

Nott stomped up the stairs and slammed the door. Harry wriggled in his bindings a bit, then decided it didn’t really matter and just lay on his back on the floor, staring it the ceiling. He supposed Andromeda might be curious when he didn’t show up to visit her and Teddy. He wondered vaguely what people would do now that he was missing. He figured measures were in place to keep people from finding Riddle House.

There wasn’t much he could do without his wand. Harry gone through his magical maturation the day after the Battle. He knew he had a lot more power now, especially since he wasn’t sheltering the Horcrux anymore, but he hadn’t used it yet. Anyway, he had never trained in wandless magic. He was resigned to waiting here in the basement/dungeon for some sort of opportunity to escape, or a rescue effort. He resumed his study of the ceiling.

His nose itched.

* * *

 

A while later, probably about twenty minutes, the basement door opened again. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a wand pointed at him as a figured descended the steps. He turned his head to look over.

“Stay where you are!” Harry gave a flat look in response. The figure was Theodore Nott, Jr. Theo, the other Slytherins at in his year had called him. Harry decided to call him that too, in his thoughts. It helped distinguish him from his father.

Theo was tall and thin, just as he had been in school. The yellow light made him look sallow, like someone who didn’t see the sun enough. His brown hair was cropped short, and his black eyes skittered around the room every few seconds before settling back on Harry.

“I’m here to guard you. If you try to escape, I _will_ kill you.” Harry doubted that. Theo himself didn’t look all that sure about it, but Harry just nodded in understanding and turned back to tracing the path of the blue wire over his head.

Theo conjured an armchair for himself, then summoned a house-elf to fetch him tea and a cup of water for “the prisoner.” This was probably meant to make Harry feel angry or ashamed at being caught. Harry thought he might want to try a little harder to get a rise out of him.

“What, no arrogant comments from the defeater of the Dark Lord? No promises of death and retribution when you escape?” Theo sneered. Harry just shrugged. “Ah, am I not good and Light enough to be spoken to by our Savior?”

Harry looked at Theo and pointedly rolled his eyes. He saw no reason to speak; he had nothing to say. He hadn’t spoken since he had killed Lord Voldemort. That had been over a month before. No wonder his friends seemed a little worried…

Harry turned away. Having studied every part of the ceiling, he turned his attention to the can peas by the stairs.

Theo huffed in frustration and summoned a book. Settling into his chair, he began to read.

* * *

 

Two days passed in the same manner. Theo never left the basement, summoning house-elves for meals and transfiguring his chair into a small bed whenever he needed to sleep. Harry ate or drank whatever was given to him, but he still refused to speak, even when Theo tried to provoke him. Once a day, Nott, Sr. came through the basement door, sneered at Harry, exchanged a few words with his son, and left again. He never stayed more than five minutes.

On the third day of his imprisonment, Nott did not come alone. After the usual questions of how everything was going, he nodded to his companion: Bellatrix Lestrange.

“Bella’s gotten a bit… bored recently, Potter. You don’t mind giving us a bit of entertainment, do you? I would love to hear you scream.”

Harry simply sat calmly, staring at the can of peas.

“Now, now little baby,” Bellatrix crooned, “don’t be like that. We’re your hosts! Didn’t your mummy ever teach you to be polite when you’re a guest?” She cackled. “No, she didn’t get a chance, did she!”

Harry said nothing. Nott frowned.

“Bella, see if you can loosen his tongue.”

“Oh, of course! Such fun! _Crucio!_ ”

Harry’s nerves were on fire as he fell back to the floor, arching in agony. This was the same torture he remembered from the days of Voldemort, but Bellatrix didn’t have the same hatred Voldemort had. Not even Bellatrix’s Cruciatus could force a noise out of Harry.

When the curse ended, he raised his head, panting, and looked at his audience. Nott was frowning, and Bellatrix looked frustrated and a little confused. Quite possibly she’d never tortured someone who wouldn’t scream.

“Hit him again, Bella.”

The curse came again. Harry gasped, and no one who heard it, not even Harry, could tell if it was one of pain or pleasure. Harry let the feeling of flames along his limbs spark memories of all the times when Voldemort had been around to subject him to the same. Those were during the days he had laughed and cried and talked and actually felt alive. Those were the days before he died.

Did Harry actually welcome the pain? Did he actually enjoy it? He didn’t know. He didn’t care, either. All he knew was that he wasn’t about to let them hear him scream. Not even Lord Voldemort had heard him scream.

When the curse was lifted again, Harry knew several minutes had passed. His muscles were twitching randomly with aftershocks, and his hearing was returning slowly, but he kept his eyes closed. He could hear the voices of his audience fade in, like a Muggle effect for a film.

“…four minutes and he didn’t make a sound. Nott, you chose well.”

“Indeed, Bella, he is very strong. He will begin preparations tonight. Theodore, make sure he is not… too damaged.”

“Yes, Father.”

Two pairs of feet climbed the stairs, and the door was slammed.

Deeming it safe, Harry opened his eyes and sat up. Theo was standing by the cage door, grasping one of the bars in a white-knuckled hand, staring with wide eyes. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“How?” he whispered in a broken voice. “How can you… that was… are you even _human_?”

Harry just shrugged. All the pain had made him remember that he was still alive. Maybe it was time to act like it again.

“They want me to scream, and I don’t really feel like indulging them. Lord Voldemort couldn’t make me scream, his insane minion doesn’t have a chance.” His voice was raspy from the weeks of silence. Theo looked even more shocked than before. He gaped for a long moment, opening his mouth only to shut it again, before he collected himself enough to speak again.

“Harry Potter, you are the strangest person I have ever met.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and _laughed_.

As his laughter echoed through the small basement, Harry thought that was the first time he’d seen Theo smile since school. Perhaps, like Harry, it had been a long time since he’d had anything to smile about. Such a shame, Theo looked good when he smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and there was a dimple in his right cheek.

“And you, Theo Nott, are the strangest guard I’ve ever had.”

“Have to be guarded a lot, Potter? I don’t recall you ever being captured by the Dark Lord,” he smirked. “Pretty sure he would have killed you if he had.”

“He did, once. Tried to duel me, gave me back my wand and everything. That was in the graveyard out behind this house, in fact.”

“Really?” Theo settled himself back in his armchair, propping elbows on knees. “Will you tell me about it? I’ve never heard that before.” Harry sat himself down cross-legged on the floor of his cage.

“Wrong, you have heard about it. It just wasn’t very long, only a couple hours. It was during our fourth year, the Third Task. The Triwizard Cup was a portkey. When I grabbed it, it brought me here. Wormtail was there, he tied me to a headstone. That was the night…”

“That was the night the Dark Lord returned,” Theo finished for him. “He really wanted to _duel_ you?”

“Yep,” Harry nodded. “Maybe I goaded him into it, I don’t remember, but we did. Good thing he didn’t know about our wands, or he’d have just fired off the Killing Curse right there.”  Theo raised an eyebrow, wordlessly prompting him to continue. “Our wands have brother cores. Phoenix feathers from the same phoenix. If you cast spells at each other with brother wands at the same time, the magic connects the wands. The effect is a very powerful _prior incantatem_. We found that out during the duel, and that’s why I could get away, back to Hogwarts.”

They were both quiet for a long moment, thinking.

“Theo?” The man in question looked up. “Your father said something about starting preparations tonight. What are they doing?”

Theo’s eyes darkened, his face a blank mask.

“They’re creating an heir for the Dark Lord.”

* * *

 

“Why? How?” Harry asked. “He’s dead, he can’t exactly father a child.”

“Yes, he’s dead. Thanks to you.” Was that anger or gratitude in Theo’s eyes? “He doesn’t need to be alive to make an heir.” Theo waved a hand dismissively. “They’re using the Blood-Birth ritual.”

“The what?” Theo frowned at him.

“Blood-Birth. It’s Old magic, like a blood adoption. Do you know it?” Harry shook his head.

“Is it like the ritual he used to give himself a new body? That one used blood of the enemy,” Harry remembered.

“No, that was a Dark ritual. The Blood-Birth is Old, it predates the time of magic being divided into Dark and Light. It uses the blood of two people to create a magical child without a mother.”

“What, Voldemort didn’t want to just knock someone up? Bellatrix would have been more than willing,” he snorted.

“The Dark Lord had always planned to use this ritual. Bella is…unbalanced. Besides, her magic wasn’t strong enough for him. No, the other blood was going to be Regulus Black’s. He was the only person to defy the Dark Lord successfully, even if he did die in the end.”

Harry let that though bounce around his head for a while. A son of Voldemort and Regulus Black. He knew Regulus had defied him by going after the locket. He even managed to get it, something Dumbledore had needed help with. Did that mean Regulus had been a powerful wizard? More powerful than Dumbledore in his old age, with his withered hand? If that was true, the boy the Death Eaters created would be powerful as well, possibly stronger than Voldemort himself. He would be raised to be a Dark Lord that could not be defeated.

So why was Harry here? Didn’t Bellatrix say something about Nott having chosen well? He doubted he was here just so they could have some fun in torturing him. The torture earlier, the pain, that had all been a test, hadn’t it? But what were they testing him for? They already had Voldemort’s and Regulus’s blood, it sounded like. So why was Harry lying in this dusty basement cell?

“What do they want with me?” Harry asked, conveniently ignoring the fact that Theo was one of them. “If they’ve got Regulus’s blood already, what do they need me for?”

Theo looked at him with guarded eyes. His expression was sad, mournful, like a doctor telling a family of a death.

“You’re sharp, Potter. They want the blood of the strongest wizards possible. Before you, Regulus was the only one to really stand up to the Dark Lord. You _killed_ him. _Twice_. What do you think they want you for?”

The answer came to him in a flash, a sudden hit to the chest, knocking the wind out of him.

“They want _my_ blood.”

Congratulations, Harry Potter. You’re going to be a father.

* * *

 

Nott and Bellatrix came back the next day. They put him under the Cruciatus again, longer this time, but Harry didn’t make a sound. Frustrated, Bellatrix slashed open his chest with hex.

He smiled at them.

Visibly unsettled, Nott collected some of them blood and swept out of the basement, dragging a fuming Bellatrix behind him.

“Make sure he doesn’t bleed to death,” he spit to his son as he left.

“If I come in there, will you attack me?” Theo asked cautiously. Harry pondered that for a moment.

“No,” he decided. “Not much point.” Escaping would only put him in a situation of having to deal with the Death Eaters upstairs on his own, weak from the meager amount of food he was given. Not to mention bleeding heavily from the gash across his front. He held up his hands, then sat on them to show Theo he didn’t mean any harm.

The tall boy peeled off his torn and dirty shirt and bent over him to get at the wound.

“They have my blood. What happens now?” he asked, mostly to himself.

“Now they start the ritual,” Theo answered as he cleaned and sealed up the gash. “It takes eighteen days to complete. They won’t want you to die until it’s over, in case it doesn’t work.”

“Why wouldn’t it work?”

“They plan on using three blood sources. No one’s ever done that before. The ritual’s only supposed to work with two.”

“How badly will that mess things up?” Harry wondered. Theo looked thoughtful.

“Well, it might fail completely. It might just go wrong spectacularly and produce some horrific monster of a child. Or…” he trailed off, an unsettled expression on his face.

“Or?” Harry prompted.

“Or yours and the Dark Lord’s magic might just be strong enough to force the ritual to work, and it’ll create a very powerful child with a predilection to Dark magic. And if that’s the case,” Theo swallowed hard. “If that’s the case, it may be better for the world just to kill it while it’s still a baby.”

* * *

 

Harry kept a countdown to his execution in the dust on the floor, in the corner of his cell. The tally marks were hidden beneath the cot they’d given him to sleep on.

Sixteen days.

Theo rarely left his guard post, but Harry didn’t often speak to him. He preferred to be lost in his head most of the time, like he had been since Voldemort’s death.

“Why are you different?” he asked suddenly. Theo lowered his book, a novel this time, to raise an eyebrow at him. Harry noticed absently that it made him look like a dark-haired Draco Malfoy.

“They hate me. You’re actually nice,” he elaborated. “Why?”

Theo’s gaze flicked to the door. He slid from his chair to crouch by the bars, beckoning Harry closer.

“When you killed the Dark Lord,” he began in a quiet voice, “you saved us all. I’ve heard stories about what Tom Riddle used to stand for. My grandfather, the first Theodore Nott, knew him in school. He said the Dark Lord wanted to separate the magical and Muggle worlds completely. He didn’t want to kill muggleborns, just bring them into our world entirely, but he changed. He started to go mad when his proposals got shot down by the Ministry. Tom Riddle was a budding politician with goals. What you killed was a mad man, lost to Dark magic.”

Harry could understand that. He’d seen memories of what Riddle had been like as a teenager. The kid had been slick, a real genius. He’d grown up in a bad place, just like Harry had. He understood what he wanted, his desire to prove himself beyond his reputation, to change the world for the better. Harry wanted something similar himself.

“Why join the Death Eaters, then?” Theo eyes were full of sadness and regret, a longing to escape showing plain on his face.

“I didn’t have a choice. My father was bound to him, and he offered me up to please his Lord. Just like Lucius Malfoy did with Draco and Crabbe and Goyle did with Vince and Greg. I’d heard all my grandfather’s stories growing up. I was still hoping he would try to make the world a better place, but he was already insane.”

* * *

 

Fifteen days.

“Tell me about Dark magic.”

“What?” Theo looked at him in surprise. Harry lay on his back on his cot, muscles still twitching from the after-effects of his daily _Crucio_.

“Everyone calls Dark magic evil and nasty, but no one ever explains why it’s different from Light magic. Plenty of Light spells can be used to kill or hurt people. One strong Reductor hex to the head, I could have your brains spread out across the wall behind you. Surely there must be some Dark spells that don’t hurt people.”

Theo looked shocked by his sudden insight. He dropped his ever-present book to his lap to study Harry a moment before answering.

“There’s a difference between Ministry-defined Dark and true Dark magic. True Dark magic always aims to hurt and destroy. Usually you have to have strong negative emotions just to cast the spells.”

Harry had a sudden flashback to the Department of Mysteries, trying to cast the Cruciatus on Bellatrix.

_You have to mean it!_

“Ministry-defined Dark includes a lot of Grey or neutral magic. They shoved just about anything that could be used as a weapon under the heading ‘Dark,’ like the Polyjuice potion. It’s actually a Grey potion, but you could use it to get close to someone and capture or kill them, or sneak in somewhere and get information, so the Ministry says it’s Dark.”

“Done that.” Harry grinned at the memory. He told Theo about when he and Ron had disguised themselves as Crabbe and Goyle to get into the Slytherin common room and interrogate Malfoy. Theo laughed.

“You really are a very different person than people say, Harry Potter.”

* * *

 

Thirteen days.

“Potter, wake up. Potter. Harry!”

Theo’s voice pulled Harry back into the world of reality, shaking and covered in cold sweat.

“Nightmare,” Theo told him.

Nightmare. War lost. Everyone dead, bodies as far as the eye could see. No, not real. Voldemort dead, war won. Not real.

“Sorry,” Harry grunted.

“It’s fine.”

* * *

 

Twelve days.

Harry writhed in pain, trying to keep his eyes on Theo’s bloodless face in the back of the room. Theo had become his anchor, his one decent thing in a world of misery. He kept his mouth clamped shut. He was under two wands at once, something they hadn’t tried before.

He wondered how long it would be until he went mad, like the Longbottoms.

Maybe he had gone mad long ago. Self-diagnosis is unreliable when it comes to insanity. After all, even the maddest loon still thinks he is sane.

The curses cut off together, and Nott’s boot collided with his jaw. Harry grunted. He tried to sit up and received another hard kick. Blood flooded his mouth as he bit his cheek. He stayed down.

Nott and Bellatrix stomped up the stairs, slamming the door behind them.

Theo crouched in front of him, fingers ghosting across the mark on his jaw.

“How do you do it?” he whispered. Harry dropped a hand to the taller boy’s hip.

“’Cause I have to,” he answered. He squeezed the bone under his hand, dropping his forehead to rest on Theo’s thin chest for a moment before pulling away to sit on his cot. Theo withdrew to his chair.

* * *

 

Harry lay on his side, trying to take pressure off a broken rib.

Ten days.

“Have you ever been in love, Theo?”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“Dumbledore told me love was the power I had that Voldemort ‘knew not’. It was in a prophecy. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, though.” He come to terms with himself during his year on the run. He had never loved Ginny truly. She was more a sister than anything else. Someone he wanted to be around, to protect, but something always felt off in their kisses. He’d shrugged it off as the pressure of the war, but he had begun to wonder if it was something else.

“No, I haven’t.” Theo shrugged. “Never found the right person.” Harry understood that. “Most of the guys around were generally weak or idiots.” Harry paused for a second, then shrugged. He wasn’t exactly in a position to care if Theo was gay or straight. “What about you, Harry? All those girls throwing themselves at you. Quite a few blokes, too.”

“They all want the Boy-Who-Lived, not me, really.” He’d hated the attention-seekers and sycophants, like Romilda Vane. “I kissed Cho Chang once. She cried.” Theo snorted. “It was right after Cedric Diggory died. She was already crying when she kissed me. I think I was really more of a replacement for Cedric than anything else.”

“You dated Ginny Weasley sixth year,” Theo pointed out.

“And that sums up the entirety of my romantic life,” Harry sighed. “No, wait, Seamus Finnegan snogged me once.” Theo’s fingers slipped on the page he was turning.

“…what?”

“He was drunk,” Harry defended half-heartedly. “He got really embarrassed the next morning, kept apologizing. I had to Obliviate him in the end just to shut him up before he said something in front of the rest of the school.” He snorted. “Can you imagine if someone had found out? It’d have been all over the papers. ‘Harry Potter Kisses Dorm Mate: Chosen One Chooses Boys?’ It’d have gone on for _weeks_.”

“Draco was always wrong about you, wasn’t he?”

“How’s that?”

“He always said you craved attention. Him and Snape both.” Harry sighed again.

“I _hate_ it,” he said truthfully. “I hate that everyone knew more about my past than I did. I hate that the _worst_ event in my life turned into some kind of fairy tale or bedtime story. I hate that the papers think my personal life is some kind of news they can use to sell more issues. I hate that everyone told me to save the world, that _I_ was their last hope, without ever raising a finger for themselves.”

Theo looked him over with understanding and a new fascination in his eyes.

* * *

 

Nine days.

Harry jerked upright, cutting off a scream. The after image of Theo’s glassy, dead eyes was still in his sight. He put his head between his knees, ignoring the sharp pain of his rib, trying to slow his breathing.

“Harry?”

Theo’s face filled his view and Harry reacted without thinking, jerking the other boy toward him by the collar and kissing him desperately.

Theo froze for a second before he relaxed. He wrapped gentle hands around the back of his neck, tongue urging Harry’s lips open to dip inside. Harry pulled the taller boy onto the cot, climbing into his lap to straddle his thighs.

Eventually he pulled away, coming back to himself.

“Sorry,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the ground. He tried to scoot away when Theo caught him around the waist.

“Do you regret it?” he asked in a serious voice.

“…not really,” Harry answered truthfully. He blushed.

“Neither do I.” Theo kissed him again, softly this time, without the edge of desperation.

Harry realized this was someone he could fall in love with very easily.

* * *

 

Eight days.

Harry inspected his raw wrists. They’d started to tie him up during his daily sessions, and he rubbed against the ropes in his movements.

Theo entered his cell again that night. It was too dangerous during the day, someone might open the door and see them, but at night they were all asleep. He touched his wrists gently without saying a word, pressing a kiss to his palm.

Harry knew there were no words to be said. They held each other as tight as they dared, both knowing it could all be over at any moment.

* * *

 

Seven days. One week was all the separated Harry from death. Success or failure, he knew he would die when the ritual was over.

Somewhere in his mind he wondered if he should feel more…something. Worried, anxious, angry? All he felt was a calm acceptance, just like when he had walked into the Forbidden Forest. He knew this death would be the final one. The Boy-Who-Lived-Twice would not live a third time. He wondered how the world would react when the news got out, for surely the Death Eaters would proclaim his death as loudly as possible. He wondered what his friends would do.

He wondered how Theo would feel.

Theo, the reluctant Death Eater. His jailer. The one who healed the worst of his wounds. Theo, the only person he had spoken to since Voldemort’s death.

Theo, the one who had helped him find his heart again.

No, it was more than that. Theo had found his heart, he _was_ his heart. He had been an empty shell, but having Theo around, talking to him, holding him close, it made him human again.

On the other side of the bars, Theo snuffled in his sleep. Harry adjusted to try to ease the pain in his ribs.

* * *

 

Six days.

Talking was painful after Bellatrix had nearly choked him to death in her rage, so he just listened as Theo talked. The Slytherin told him what it was like to grow up in the magical world, to grow up in a noble household.

He talked about his expectations as the Nott Heir, about the rules of the Wizengamot. He told Harry the names of all the noble houses he knew.

Harry coughed in surprise when he reached Potter.

“You didn’t know?” He seemed genuinely disturbed by that. Harry shook his head.

“The House of Potter is one of the oldest. You were eligible to claim your title when you turned seventeen. Actually, you probably have more than one title. A lot of lines have consolidated or just died out entirely. That’s the problem with only allowing the eldest son to inherit. If the titles could be spread out, they might still exist.”

Lord Potter. No one had ever told him. Why? He couldn’t believe Dumbledore hadn’t known. The man had been in school with his great-grandparents, after all!

Then he brushed it away. He was going to die in less than a week. There was no point in letting it bother him.

* * *

 

Five days left. Thirteen little lines in the dust under his cot.

It was nearly nightfall when they came, Bellatrix and Nott and Dolohov. They took turns making shallow cuts across his chest and back, kicking him in the sides. Then Nott turned to Theo.

“I think it’s about time we let you have some fun, eh son?” His grin was maniacal. Theo blanched. “Go on, have at it. Give him a good cursing. Maybe you’ll be the lucky one to make him scream.”

Theo pointed his wand at Harry, and a thousand apologies shone in his eyes.

“ _Crucio_.”

Harry let his back arch and bend, gritting his teeth. He coughed once. He was so used to the pain by now. Voldemort himself couldn’t make him scream or cry out.

Long minutes later, Nott let his son release the spell.

“Too bad, son. Better luck next time.” The door slammed shut at the top of the stairs. Harry found himself cradled against a thin chest.

“Harry! Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Tears that were not his fell on Harry’s dust-streaked face.

“I know, Theo. I know.”

* * *

 

Still five days, or was it four now? Harry couldn’t tell. Surely midnight had come and gone while he had stared into the dark.

On the other side of the bars, he knew Theo was doing the same. His breathing was sometimes ragged, sometimes soft, not the steady evenness of sleep. Once in a while it caught, as though he was crying silent tears in the shelter of night.

“Harry?” Theo croaked, tears evident in his voice as well. Harry shifted to show he heard. “Why…how can you stand me?”

Harry frowned.

“Do you want me to hate you instead?”

“No!” Theo rushed out. “But…shouldn’t you? I’m a Marked Death Eater, and we did everything we could to kill you.”

Harry rolled stiffly off his cot to crouch by the bars and reach for Theo.

“Show me the Mark?” he asked softly. Theo pushed his sleeve up and held out his arm, haltingly, hesitantly.

There, in the soft glow of wandlight, the Dark Mark lay on his smooth flesh. A bone, made of ink and faded by its master’s passing. Harry touched it, felt its stiffness and raised edges, like a long-healed burn.

“This is not the entirety of you. You are a person, with likes and dislikes and dreams and hatreds. This is nothing more than a scar, and it shows nothing other than what you once had to submit to, simply to save yourself.”

Harry covered the Mark with his own scarred hand, where Umbridge had made him carve damning words.

“I have scars of my own, you know,” he continued softly. “They remind me of the choices I’ve made, whether it was to be the hero or to save myself. Sometimes they remind me of the things I had to submit to, things that were out of my control.”

He meet Theo’s eyes, dark as midnight in the soft light, then bent his head to the Mark, so close that his lips brushed it when he spoke.

“I’m going to die very soon. I don’t have the time, the energy, or the reason to hate you for a small part of you.” He placed a gentle kiss to the Mark. “Not when the rest of you is so wonderful.”

* * *

 

Four.

Harry slumped on the floor. Hauling himself up on his cot would be too hard with his muscles still twitching and jerking. The combined spells had gone on for seconds-minutes-hours. It was difficult to judge time well while in pain.

Nott made Theo curse him again. All they got was hard panting and the occasional cough. Harry wondered again if he was sane enough to be able to recognise the madness when it came.

It would come for him, that he knew.

“Come on, up you go.” Gentle hands heaved him up onto his cot. He sighed in relief, leaning forward to meet Theo’s lips in another stolen, secret kiss. Theo gave a little moan in his throat at the contact.

“Harry,” he said when they broke apart, “I lov-“ Harry slapped a hand across his mouth.

His fingers twitched.

“Please don’t, Theo. Not here, not now.” Dark eyes full of pain flitted away from his. He sighed. “If things were different, if we weren’t _here_ , then I think I could love you too. But I can’t let myself now, not here as we are.”

But Harry had already let himself. He had already fallen in love, for the first time in his life, with his jailer, and it was more painful than any Cruciatus Curse, more wonderful than any broomstick ride.

* * *

 

Three.

The sun had set hours ago, but sleep eluded them both. Neither of them had any words to say, either, so they simply sat together in Harry’s cage, pressed against each other from shoulder to hip, staring at the candle burning low before them.

“Want a drink?”

Harry wondered if that was the best time for them to be drinking. Then he remembered that he only had three days left and he really didn’t give one either way.

“Yeah, alright.”

Theo summoned an elf and swore it to secrecy before sending it to fetch a bottle of gin.

He closed his eyes to savor the first taste.

“My favorite kind,” he explained when Harry raised an eyebrow.

Alcohol distracted Harry from the pain, he discovered. It didn’t heal him or make him miraculously feel better or free, but it was something.

The two sat for hours, passing the bottle between them, finishing first one, then another. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they kissed, kisses that only got sloppier and more desperate as the night wore on. Mostly they just sat and drank and waited for the sun to rise again.

* * *

 

Two.

“Theo, Dolohov wants to see you upstairs.” The dismissal was clear in Nott’s voice. Theo bowed his head and left.

When he opened the door that night and saw Harry, he choked on a sob. Harry raised his head from where it had slumped on his chest.

“Don’t,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do.” Theo stepped back from the cell door, studying Harry with pain in his eyes.

They had moved the cot out of the way to reach the back wall. Harry sat against it, chains crossing his bare chest and pressing him back against the cold stone. They had made the chains burn while the tortured him. Some of the blisters had broken, and the chains were slick with blood.

They’d finally managed to get a single choked sound out of him, one that he quickly bit off.

“Tell me a story,” he asked in a rough voice.

“What do you want me to say?” Theo’s voice was only a whisper.

“Anything. Distract me.”

So Theo told him about life in the Slytherin dungeons. He told him about how proud his father had been to hear about his Sorting. About charming all the mirrors in the dungeons to show Malfoy’s hair as bright pink. About quiet conversations in support of Voldemort. About even more furtive whispered words in support of Harry Potter.

Harry told him what it was like to be in Gryffindor. He told of loud parties in the common room every time he won a Quidditch match. Of carefully inspecting food for Fred and George’s pranks. Of being alternately a figurehead and a pariah. Of how empty is was over the Christmas holidays.

They stayed up the whole night, sharing stories.

* * *

 

One day.

No one came to visit that day. A sense of finality hung over them in that quiet basement. Harry fell into a fitful sleep born of exhaustion early that night.

“Shh, hush Harry, it’s just a dream,” Theo woke him from another screaming nightmare, holding him gently. When he stood to go back to his own bed, Harry caught his hand.

“Stay,” he croaked. “Please.”

Silence hung heavy between them.

“Okay.”

The cot was hard and rough. It was too small for two people, but that didn’t matter.

For one night, they could almost pretend the world was a different place.

* * *

 

The cell door flew open with a crash.

“Traitor,” Nott hissed. With a flick of his wand, Theo hit the back wall. Harry moved before he was really awake, rolling off the cot into a crouch, straightening up in front of Nott’s wand.

“Oh, has Ickle Potty fallen in _looove_?”

Bellatrix actually recoiled from his cold stare.

“Quiet, Bella,” Nott admonished. “It’s time.”

Zero hour. Harry Potter was about to die.

They bound his hands behind his back and forced him up the stairs, prodding him roughly to make him stumble. Bellatrix loosed her singular cackle when he tripped over the threshold, a weak and last ditch attempt to get a reaction out of him.

Harry only felt the coldness.

It was a hollow emptiness, cold only from its lack of warmth. The kind one can only feel when they have accepted their death and walk proudly to it. Harry had felt it once before, as he walked through the Forbidden Forest and faced Voldemort without ever raising his wand.

Theo was pushed up the stairs and through the house behind him. Harry blamed himself for Theo’s coming punishment, regretted ever asking him to stay. He was already dead, but he should not have condemned Theo beside him.

They brought them to the graveyard, near the place where Voldemort rose again. Dolohov released the binds on Harry’s hands, but held him still with his wand pressed to the back of Harry’s neck.

“Make him kneel,” Nott ordered, and Harry began to bend his knees.

But it was Theo who was forced to the ground. Nott pressed his wand into his son’s chest.

“You are a traitor,” he hissed, “and a traitor’s death you shall have. _Arto_.”

There was nothing visible, but Theo’s eye went wide and glassy with pain and his shoulders hunched, as if he were protecting his chest. Harry started toward him, but aborted the move when Dolohov’s wand pressed in harder, burning the tender skin there.

“Let him go to the boy, if he wants to hold the traitor’s hand,” Nott sneered, and Harry rushed to kneel beside Theo’s prone form. Nott spat on him. “He’s no son of mine.”

* * *

 

“Harry,” Theo’s voice was quiet and rough with pain, “the ritual worked.”

“What?” Harry mouthed, breath failing him.

“The magic forced the ritual to work. The child will be powerful, but normal,” Theo explained, clearly fighting to get the words out. “You can’t let them have the child. Save it if you can, but kill it if you have to.”

“What about you?” Harry was grasping at straws and he knew it. “You…is there a chance I could-“

“No.” His tone was final, one foot in the grave already. “You can’t.” Theo wrapped his hands around Harry’s wrists.

“Take this.” He placed in Harry’s right hand a knife. It was a blade made to be a weapon, simple steel with a razor edge. Harry swore to himself it would taste Nott’s blood that day.

“Take this.” Theo placed a hand on the underside of Harry’s left arm, the place where the Dark Mark would go, and pushed his magic into Harry. It was cold then warm, warm then hot, too hot, it burned and seared his flesh. Black ink crept out from beneath his palm and spread, following his veins and arteries to his wrist and elbow. When Theo lifted his hand, the perfect image of a heart was formed there. Veins of ink contracted in rhythm, matching the pulse of Harry’s own heart.

“You’ve given me back my heart,” Harry said wonderingly. “But Theo, you _are_ my heart.”

“And take this.” He cupped Harry’s face in his hands, hands that had given Harry so much, and kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, one of love and sorrow and remembrance and goodbye.

“I love you, Harry Potter.”

“Theo,” Harry whispered brokenly, struggling with every ounce of his strength to force the words from his throat.

But Theo fell slack before he could. The light and kindness and wonder and curiosity left his eyes, leaving them empty of everything that was Theo. Glassy orbs lay open to reflect the midnight sky as Harry lowered him gently.

Magic and rage and fire coursed through him, burning away the empty hollowness. What use was his death now? It would only serve to cheapen Theo’s sacrifice. No, now he was resolved to live, and at the price of his captors’ blood.

He stood and walked away, leaving the shell that had once been a man he loved, turning instead toward the place the last remaining radicals of Voldemort’s army were gathered around a great stone cauldron. Magic and power filled him, giving him strength and purpose, and the air around him snapped and cracked like a lightning storm.

As he approached, he saw Dolohov dip his hands into the cauldron, sinking them into the shimmering blood-red liquid up to the elbows. Then he withdrew them, and, with them, the child. It was still and quiet, but perfectly formed, dripping with the potion. Dolohov wiped it away and wrapped the child in clean cloths.

“A son,” he said clearly, holding the infant boy up. “An heir for the Dark Lord.”

Then the child opened his eyes.

* * *

 

The infant boy’s stare pinned Harry to the ground behind Dolohov, the gaze too old for a newborn babe. Green eyes.

_My eyes, my mother’s eyes._

Fire roared with the sound of a dragon inside Harry, stoked by some new-formed paternal instinct. This child was his, his son, was part of him. He would not let these Death Eaters, these radical filth, use him in their sordid plans.

Then Bellatrix held the child, and hatred flooded through Harry’s veins, like acid. How dare she touch what was his? With the hatred came a new magic, one foreign and yet familiar, laying over his own like oil on water. It felt of death and decay and bloodlust and despair and hatred and humiliation, and Harry recongised it as Voldemort’s. It surged toward them, knowing them by their Marks, tugging him forward to slaughter them all.

So he let it free.

Dolohov fell first, clutching at his face as skin and muscle bubbled and melted away, like candle wax. Harry stepped casually over him, avoiding the pools of liquid flesh with his bare feet. Nott’s and Bellatrix’s eyes went wide as they scrambled for their wands.

Harry directed the oily Darkness to Bellatrix next, pricking her with a thousand pins that grew into needles that grew into knives. She dropped to her knees, screaming in pain, and Harry plucked the child out of her arms. Then he formed the magic into a guillotine and killed her with a single swift stroke.

Warm blood sprayed, cooling on his face and arms.

Never speaking a word, Harry turned to Nott. Calling the magic to pin him down, he shifted the child into the cradle of his left arm, holding the knife in his right.

“Please,” Nott whimpered as Harry crouched above him, “mercy, I beg of you.”

Harry only smiled and plunged the blade into his heart, watching as the life left his eyes.

“As you took my heart,” he murmured, twisting the knife as he withdrew it, “as I take yours. So mote be it.”

He rose and staggered a ways away before falling to his knees once more. The child, his son, looked up at him with his own eyes, and Harry regretted that the boy’s first view of his father was painted with gore.

“My son,” he whispered, “my son. You have your father’s eyes.” He laughed softly, though tears began to fall. “Will you be my heart now? My last one is dead. You’ve seen too much death already, and only just born. You don’t even have a name.” He tipped his head back to stare at the sky, lightening with the coming dawn. “Day is breaking. Death looks worse in the daylight.” He paused. “Let’s go home, my son, my…Regulus.”

Harry only had the strength to give a single croaking call for Kreacher to find him before body slumped to the earth, eyes closed.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Arto is Latin for "compress" or "reduce." I use it as a Dark spell that slowly crushes and shrinks the heart, killing the victim painfully.


End file.
